


Incident in a Barn

by RileyC



Category: DCU, World's Finest - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for: The 5th birthday prompt challenge at the World's Finest comm on LiveJournal.</p><p>Prompt by Bradygirl_12: “There’s a signpost up ahead. Next stop, the Twilight Zone.”</p><p>Clark and Bruce have slipped sideways in time and space, winding up on an alternate Earth that I envision as majorly creepyass, and now I'm kind of wishing I'd fleshed this out more.</p><p>Although mostly Clark waxes poetic about Bruce's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incident in a Barn

From the corner of his eye, Clark can see Bruce flexing his hands, covered in supple black leather, rubbing at his wrists, a grimace briefly twisting his lips. “You okay?” he asks, remembering how tightly those ropes had pulled at Bruce’s wrists. So tight, Clark’s only option had been to slice through the fibers with his heat vision.

He hadn’t thought much more of it at the time. Getting Bruce safely and swiftly away from the crazed mob intent on burning both of them at the stake had been uppermost in his mind. Now, though… “Show me.”

Midnight blue eyes, inscrutable, stare at him. “Show you what?”

“Your hands.”

That stare holds him for another second before shifting back to take in the moonlit scene outside. “I’m fine,” Bruce says, the tone of his voice indicating that’s meant to be the end of the matter.

Clark joins him at the window, high up in the old barn’s loft, outfitted now with a few worn but cozy furnishings, the sweet familiar scent of dried hay in the air. Even in this altered reality, a sideways slip in space and time, Clark would know this place – this farm on the outskirts of Smallville.

The Jonathan and Martha Kent in the snug farmhouse below, warm lights glowing in the window, weren’t his parents. They had never raised any child, let alone an orphaned refugee from Krypton. They weren’t so different from his Ma and Pa, though. In a world gone mad with superstition-fueled fear, they were astonishingly sane and solid.

Part of the underground, helping the persecuted – anyone outside the normal box – and gathering support to fight back against oppression, they hadn’t batted an eye when Clark and Bruce, costumes shredded, themselves worse for wear, had shown up at their door. Food, baths, clothing and shelter had been provided, with reassurances that, _“You boys are safe now. Stay and rest up as long as you need to.”_ Clark’s insistence on helping out with chores had been graciously refused at first, nor stirringly endorsed by Bruce, but Clark’s cheerful persistence had worn everyone down in the end.

”I am not milking a cow, Clark,” Bruce had stated in no uncertain terms.

”Fine, you can get the eggs from the henhouse then – you’d probably sour the milk anyway.”

That had earned him a first class glower, strangely comforting after Bruce’s close call with the bloodthirsty mob.

Seeing Bruce kneading his hands again, a faint whisper of pain flickering across his handsome features, Clark finds his anticipation at witnessing the debut of _Bruce Wayne, Farmboy_ dimming just a bit.

“I want to see your hands, Bruce.”

“And I told you, nothing is the matter, Clark.”

“Then why won’t you take the gloves off?”

He hadn’t given the gloves much thought at first. That was just Bruce in Batman mode, even if the suit was in tatters now and hidden away. That Bruce always wore gloves so as to never leave an incriminating fingerprint behind. Bruce had frequently taken Clark to task for not taking similar precautions. _”All anyone needs is to get your prints, and Clark Kent’s, and your life as you’ve known it is over.”_ Clark could see the validity of his friend’s point, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to share the paranoia.

These gloves had been retrieved from a compartment of Batman’s utility belt, and if they were somewhat incongruous when paired with the faded jeans and denim workshirt Bruce had courteously accepted from Martha Kent, Clark suspected it would be only the most foolish fashion critic who would remark upon it.

Clark could use his x-ray vision to examine Bruce’s hands, of course. Except that, (1) he knows Bruce doesn’t like to be scanned without permission; and (2) it honestly wouldn’t surprise him if the gloves were lined with lead.

He looks at those hands, resting lightly on the window sill. Those hands amaze him. They might almost be the summation of this man. Stripped naked, at a first glance they’re only Bruce Wayne’s pampered dilettante’s hands: elegant, with long, slender fingers, manicured to perfection. Not a hint, not at first glance, of the strength and agility they possess; the expertise they possess, whether fine-tuning some exotic device or as physics balled into a fist and flattening someone five times his size with the power harnessed in them.

Clark’s stored up memories of those hands. Of them reaching out to straighten Clark’s tie and smoothing along his shoulders – of them gripping a grappling line while simultaneously maintaining just as unbreakable a grip on a terrified and weeping child. He’s felt those hands on his body, unflinchingly digging out shards of Kryptonite – and watched them wave enthusiastically in his face at some Wayne Manor soiree, as Bruce spun an elaborate (and ludicrous) tale explaining why he happened to be on crutches just at the moment.

He’s cherished other thoughts involving those hands, erotic daydreams of what it would be like to kiss Batman’s gauntlets, taste the dark leather. He’s imagined scenarios where those hands, gauntlets stripped away, touch him intimately, possessively – and his face burns in the moonlit dark, making him glad they extinguished the hurricane lamps.

He suddenly can’t stand to think of those hands being injured, and reaches for them, grasping them gently in his own.

“Clark—“

“Shh. I want to see.”

“Clark…” Bruce’s breath hitches in his throat for an instant as Clark’s fingers tickle the palms of his hands, “you’re making a fuss over nothing.”

“So let me see.”

Bruce rolls his eyes – but he doesn’t protest or pull his hands away as Clark carefully, deliberately tugs at the gloves. As eager as Clark is to see Bruce’s hands, he doesn’t want this moment to go by _too_ quickly. He’s waited a long time for this, after all. That this action of slowly stripping away the gloves, pale, bare skin revealed, inch by inch, to his avid gaze, is loaded with metaphor does not escape Clark. He allows himself the hope it won’t escape Bruce, either.

The way Bruce’s heartbeat picks up speed, the hastily bitten back gasp as Clark’s thumb glides along the inside of one wrist give Clark considerable fuel for his optimism.

Finally the gloves are gone and Clark cradles Bruce’s hands, inspecting the damage,

Red marks score the palms like rope burns. Bruises, fresh and tender, encircle each wrist where the ropes had bound him so tightly. Clark hates the marks. Hates that he wasn’t quick enough to stop it happening.

As if reading his mind (and would that even be astonishing after all this time?), Bruce whispers, “Don’t. It wasn’t your fault, Clark,” and slips one hand free to lay it against Clark’s face. “I’d be dead if you hadn’t been with me.”

Growing solemn at that thought, fearing the truth of it, Clark nods. On impulse, he turns his face into that touch, nuzzling into it. “I wouldn’t want to be here by myself, either.” This world where everything seems so familiar until you notice all the ways in which it was skewed and out of alignment. Bizarro World was a Sunday picnic in the park compared.

Still appearing to read his mind, Bruce says, “We’ll find a way out of here, Clark. I promise you.”

And Clark wants to believe him, but, “I think we’re a long way from home, Bruce.”

“So? When’s that ever stopped us?”

Blinking, Clark ponders that, asks, “When did you get to be the optimist of this partnership?”

“Somebody has to pick up the slack if you’re going to take up brooding.”

Clark smiles, falling in love with him for the 1,753 time.

~*~

 

It’s later and they’re lying twined together in the bed, a handmade quilt keeping out the early spring chill.

Clark has kissed those hands, cherishing the bruises – all the scars he uncovered. He’s felt them mapping his body, as intimately, _possessively_ as he had ever dared to dream, but so much better than any dream.

He’s felt their strength, grasping his own hands and holding them against the headboard as the bedsprings creaked alarmingly at every thrust. He’s experienced their tenderness, stroking through his hair, swiping a warm, wet cloth across his belly. Now he’s confessed it -- _”Clark, do you have any other kinks I should know about?”_ \-- someday he’ll find out what those leather gauntlets feel like against his naked flesh.

They’re lost in space and time, and he’s not sure either one of them really believes there’s a way out of this one. Yet he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this good.

“You look awfully pleased with yourself,” Bruce says, not entirely devoid of smugness himself.

Clark just smiled some more.

“I suppose,” Bruce drew a thoughtful finger along Clark’s sternum, down his stomach, “this is something you’ve been looking forward to, having your way with me in a barn?”

Clark’s eyebrows rose. “ _Who_ had their way with _whom_?”

“Umm,” Bruce leans in closer, “it is way too late to play the wide-eyed innocent alien with me,” he murmurs and swallows any protest with a long, deep, slow kiss that Clark can feel all the way down to his toes.


End file.
